The closest I've come to trekking was a leisurely walk with gourmet food on the Freycinet track in Tasmania. My two friends have done the Himalayas, well, Nepal, and they descend into nostalgia the second they sit down under the dark beams and white-washed walls of The Nepalese Kitchen.

I learn from them that it's easy to put on weight in the cafes of Kathmandu, munching on post-marijuana brownies and cakes, the recipes courtesy of the American Peace Corps and international trekkies. I also learn that the hardy Nepalese can wind straps around their foreheads then hoist a fridge onto their backs and carry it over the mountains. This is all before I've even had a chance to taste the difference between Nepalese and Indian cooking; where the Indians prefer their spicing upfront and hearty, the Nepalese like it to be a background to the other ingredients.

So to the food. We start with dumplings (momo) - I'm on a mission to sample every kind of dumpling I come across - filled with small chunks of chicken and sparky rounds of spring onion in a dough that is just a smidgin sticky. The roasted tomato achar (pickle) is so smooth it's almost creamy and its chilli heat is subtle. We miss out on the salad of barbecued beef (haku chweola) marinated in ginger, garlic and chilli, so we substitute pieces of ling fish that have been marinated in chilli and lime and lightly fried in a besan batter (machha pokoda). They are pleasant, but not memorable.

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There is a gap between courses for me to survey the cosy room. Next to me, the counter is covered with dakka fabric and topped with a brass comport and candlesticks with satisfying dangles. The white walls have dark-framed etchings and prints and Nepalese musical instruments and carvings hung with grace.

The room is full of young and old, groomed and artfully dishevelled, student and retired, coiffures and beanies, couples and families, celebrations and get-togethers.

A couple stay long enough to down two courses and disappear; a table of 10 lingers till late.

Our mains arrive like a herd and include the semi-famous goat curry (boka ko tarkari), which is as tender as we'd been led to believe and lightly laced with sweet cinnamon and cloves. The layers of flavour are there, minus the intensity you might expect.

Our other curry, kwati, is an ode to the pulse. It's made from nine different beans (we don't count them, but I spot fat lima beans, brown and white chickpeas and two types of kidney beans) and is more vegetal in its spicing, with parsley seed, cumin and coriander powder.

The green beans and snow peas (bandakopi) are smothered in a pale green sauce of green chilli and fresh coconut flecked with coriander. It's like a mild condiment to the deeply flavoured curry dishes.

We've also ordered chicken fillets marinated in garlic, ginger, chilli and yoghurt, then grilled (kukhura poleko). They are smoky and moist, a respite from the wet dishes.

The only disappointment is the rice, cooked so there are clumps of wet grains that can't soak up the aromatic sauces.

The tiny dipping plate of gulio chutney, on the other hand, is delightful. I can taste the apricots, dates and peaches through the warmth of the chilli. The paratha is blackened but buttery and tears apart easily.

We shouldn't but we do; order desserts, that is. Sooji halwa is a semolina pudding laced with caramelised sugar and milk cooked with cardamom and cloves. I prefer it to the lal mohan, made from paneer (white cheese), which is so tart not even the honey yoghurt and rosewater syrup can balance it.

The evening ends on a high with chiya (tea), as we cover the ups and downs of trips travelled and treks taken.

Out of 10

Food 8

Mainly peaks, making it a nostalgic trip for some, a revelation for others.